Winter
by Doll of the Devil
Summary: Ciel Phantomhive watches the first snowfall of the year. (Ciel-centric, birthday-fic, implied SebaCiel, TW: depression.)


**A/N: Something I wrote about a year ago but never uploaded. So I thought I'd upload it for Ciel's birthday. Read with caution: it's very depressing.**

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><p><strong>Winter<strong>

Ciel Phantomhive liked to watch the snow fall.

As a child, he had always marvelled over the majestic descend of those little, white crystals, one by one, side by side, dancing and twirling and faster and faster - and yet, _so slow_ - as they trailed languidly along the cold, glass surface of his bedroom window and then, when it was very late in the evening, he would often find himself wondering how such small snowflakes could so easily clutter together and become one as they covered the entire grounds of the mansion, the roofs, the chimneys, and even now, even though he understood that it wasn't a magical spectacle as he had imagined, but simply complicated nature, he still loved to gaze upon the first silver-shimmering tumble of the year.

And just that - the fall, the beginning, the first forming of that white blanket of innocence, of purity - clean and perfect and beautiful.

Many years ago, as an unknowing little boy, he, like all other children, had loved to play in it. Back then, he had taken great pleasure in rolling limp and boneless around in all the pale, powdery softness, always coming to a rest on his back to spread his arms and legs wide and create an image of purity himself; or to build a snowman with Tanaka and his father, even if his tiny body was too weak and too restless to move the heavy balls of snow around and all he really could do was stand by and watch in utter awe as they created a tall, impressive statue out of something so fragile.

He had not minded either to see the all of it pass, melt, and disappear after his mother had explained to him (when he had been upset right after his first white December) that it could always come back the following year. He had not even minded the gross, blubbery, off-brown substance it turned into as the temperature rose gently with time, unable to see any sort of significance into is, innocent as he was himself.

Was - _was._

And now, Ciel, older and wiser and slightly taller, stood, right cheek pressed against that window in his bedroom, his still-small hand curled up and resting against the glass, to watch the first snow of that year come to rest upon the ground. Beautiful as it were - still, he stood with an icy expression and a knot in his stomach, whilst he stared, with something sort of jealousy forming beneath his ribs.

He, he thought, was quite like the snow, himself. When he had been young, he had been as pure and untarnished as first snowfall, innocent and bright; and then - then had come _that time _and like snow, unconscious and helpless like under carriage wheels, under the burning heat of the sun, he had been soiled, ruined - _broken_.

He had been played with, like he was something to play with, just a defenceless little thing… left gross, and dirty and _crushed_.

Closing his eyes, Ciel shivered, heart pounding unevenly in his throat as he tried to regain some of his dignity and composure. He knew, like any other, that remembering and wondering and thinking wasn't going to do any good, and yet, he could not withhold himself from precisely doing that.

He liked it when the snow fell - liked it, and _hated it_ from the very depths of his tiny being. He hated it because he, too, fell; fell from grace, from standing even, unable to feel wholly worthy again.

Opening his eyes and leaning back, he gazed at his reflection (for the dark night had turned the window into a bad mimic of a mirror) and watched his troubled expression calm before melting back into unease when he really looked and saw the markings in his eye and could nearly see brand on his back even though it wasn't even reflected.

He would never be beautiful again.

He would never be pure again.

He felt so dirty, sullen, and weak, trembling as not only blood and heritage and anger but also shame coursed trough his veins like a wild, unrestrained river, unaffected by the cold. He hated it - he hated himself, he hated life; for life was so _fake_, because it wasn't good or happy or wonderful or chaste at all, and all he ever heard was lies.

Life was fake, snow was fake, beauty was fake.

And everyone lied.

Even so, they tried really hard to cover up that what roamed in worlds below with fair layers of manners and parties and sparkling chandeliers and soft, flowing dresses and blooming flowers and all the gold and silver one could wish for. It was no use; Ciel had lifted the veil and he had seen all the horror that hid beneath, and such thing could never be unseen and he would not - could not - believe those pretty white lies.

Even when Sebastian gently caressed his brow with his gloved fingertips and flattered him like a butler ought to, trying to contradict his master's worries with words of surprising kindness, and even when the butler insisted that he did not lie, Ciel did not believe him.

He simply wasn't beautiful - how could he be? And he wasn't kind.

He was none of those things.

Sometimes he wondered if he was anything, at all.

He caught a tear between his lashes, blinking rapidly, and forced himself away from the glass. Leaving the scenery for what it was, he sought out the warmth of his covers and the comfort of his goose-feathered pillow, pressing his face into the expensive linens, and willed himself to sleep.

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><p><strong>AN: Happy Birthday, dearest Ciel! Thank you for your bravery and determination; thank you for living against all odds. All my love and admiration ~Doll**


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